


Cityscapes

by hanwritessolo



Series: Objects of Mass Destruction and Affection [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, M/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 06:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: Your anxiety has a face, and it looks a lot like a city of lights losing its lustre, and letting go of a boy who loves you back.





	Cityscapes

As you march along the cobbled sidewalks of Insomnia’s historic main boulevard, each click of your heel echoes a heavy nostalgia. It is past eleven p.m., and yet the evening still burns bright with bustling food stalls and all the myriad of lights from century-old buildings to newly-built skyscrapers, and it is bright enough to ignite a memory of a boy you still love.

It has been weeks since you last saw or heard from Prompto, and by now, the sting of his memory should have probably hurt less. But the picturesque streets are fragrant with sweet biscuits of fried dough and meat pies and grilled steak, every little dish that he savoured with you stirs the sting into that painful regret, and finally unearths the ghouls to come out and play with you in this cold, lonely night. Because here, soaked in the blend of smells and the acrid smoke of skewers and seared fish were hours upon mountains of hours of long conversations. Here were hours of Prompto wasting his Polaroid prints to document every single expression of your face that he unfailingly adores. There was another hour by the green park bench underneath a cherry tree where he cracked so many of his silly jokes until your jaw ached from so much laughter, another two behind the walls of a photography gallery where he first kissed you, and an hour at an arcade’s front doors where he first told you that he loves you.

And when Prompto told you that he loves you, he _really_ does love you.

But your anxiety made you say, _“No, I’m sorry.”_

Which was really silly when all you wanted to say to him was, _“No, I’m sorry, I love you, too, but I have a lot of things going on in my mind and I can’t bear myself sometimes but if you’re cool with that then great please be my boyfriend.”_

Considering that one was a complete mouthful, you settled with the one you are most accustomed to: swallowing your feelings whole and letting your anxiety drag you away. Because how can you burden such a wonderful man like Prompto with someone like you? Surely, you cannot let him see that your anxiety has a face, and it looks a lot like an angry deity who forces you awake even from a sleepless night, that it has the clawed hands of a prowling predator that steals the air out of your lungs, that it has the audacity to own a scathing voice, and it sounds a lot like a jealous former lover who berates you that you will never be good enough. Not smart enough. Not pretty enough.

Not enough, never enough, will never be enough.

It is past midnight when your aimless meandering brings you to the park where you first met Prompto, and the night is still aflame with the city lights. The streets have become a holy ground for your self-condemnation, a temple for your cruel recklessness, and you grind to a halt in front of the same green park bench underneath the cherry tree, hoping you could worship your own stupid mistake of letting go of the boy you still love.

But you stop and you almost forget how to breathe. Not from regret, or remorse, or self-loathing, but at the sight of that familiar blonde hair, that freckled face, that handsome smile.

Prompto leaps from his seat at the sight of you. At the same time, you both awkwardly say, “Hi.”

He laughs, nervous and bashful. He reaches for the back of his head as he rambles along, “So, I missed you so I went here, but I didn’t exactly thought—”

You interrupt him when the words you were meant to say finally gushes out of your mouth. “I love you. I’m… this is a bit overdue but I love you.”

“I know. And I’ll still love you even if you don’t anymore,” he walks over to you and smiles, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear and holding your face with such scalding affection, as if you have not hurt him, as if he was never hurt at all.

 


End file.
